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The Story of the Corral

If you were rock n’ rollin’ through 2021, you’ve probably heard of The Corral. The DIY venue, built out of a small warehouse space in the north side of Boise, was very popular for local and touring bands alike. At its height, shows were happening every weekend and it was booked months in advance, until it all came to a very abrupt and tragic end at the hands of a rogue metalhead vandal.

Cade Yates, frontman for Stunned, was the owner of The Corral. He met with Spud Underground to show us around and tell the story of how the legendary venue rose and fell.

How the Corral Began

“I’ve had this idea in my head for a long time,” said Cade. “Oddly enough, the place that gave me this inspiration is kitty-corner to us, across the fence. It’s called Rocket Science. It’s basically the same thing as this but way more professional. They used to have some shows there but but they stopped doing it because kids were being assholes. It always felt a little… cliquey anyway. Before the pandemic it seemed like the music scene around here was really uptight and reserved. There were only a few bands that ever played shows, and they were all a little bit older and thought of themselves very highly. They didn’t like mingling or letting other people feel involved in what they were doing. That always bugged me.  A lot of them were classically trained and thought they were the fuckin’ shit. A lot of that was associated with [Rocket Science] so that’ what the shows over there tended to be like. I always had this dream in my head of, ‘I wish the music scene wasn’t like that. I wish it was more communal, and everyone was fun and chill with each other, and there was a place where there were dirty-ass punk rock shows going on all the time, like jam garage band shit.’”

The man had a vision and got to work making it happen. He teamed up with the now-defunct band Ruff Pups to put together the deposit and rent for a warehouse space.

“So I’m a landscaper, and there’s a dump, a special dump for lawn debris. For a while, I had the code to the padlock to go there after hours, because they trusted me for some reason., which was a big mistake. They have a wood pile, and so I would just steal wood from the wood pile and bring it back here. We would go and buy any foam that we could possibly find on Craigslist or thrift stores. Hell, we even got some from the landfill one time, and subsequently got scabies, so that probably wasn’t the greatest idea. Same with the blankets.

“The funniest part was the spray glue. We’d go to Wal-Mart and get a fuckload of that that, and we’re just out there spraying all these boards and jumping on the foam to get it to stick, and losing all of our brain cells. We’re all dizzy and high and stepping on these things. Then we’d drink a bunch of beer and climb ladders, which is real safe, that’s how we got all the wood up there.

“It was just kind of our obsession to deck out the ceiling with all these wooden boards and just organize… we call it our breathing collage, because that’s how we treated the walls with all these panels. We eventually switched to nails because we learned that the spray glue wasn’t doing us any favors. The foam was starting to fall off so we started nailing these blankets to the boards to hold everything in, and it worked a lot better.”

Cade developed a technique for affixing the foam boards to the concrete walls of the warehouse that he was quite proud of- two fish hoods and an S-hook to connect them.

“Those were the funnest days. When there were no shows here, and I lived here, and I would just jam with my buddies all the time because there was nothing else to do, and we’d just spend every night decking the place out. We were really tight back then. The pandemic was weird because all these hurdles started appearing, like, ‘oh, we can’t be around at the same time because you’re not being safe enough, or we don’t feel comfortable doing this or someone at work was exposed, so we’re not going to be there for two weeks,’ next thing you know six months go by and you’re not talking to any of your friends anymore.

“Then we get out of the pandemic. Out of nowhere, it was like the whole Boise scene had turned on its head. All these older bands that I used to know where just gone. They moved, or weren’t a band anymore. All of the sudden, every 19-year-old in the city is in a band. They all are friends with each other and they all swap members. There’s a plethora of punk rock bands that are all open and chill with each other and fun to hang out with and I was like, wow. Now they have a venue. My dream just fell into place.”

Explosive Growth

The Corral starting hosting shows in May of 2021 as a new music scene rose form the ashes of the pandemic. This publication only ever saw on show at the Corral, but it was something else. The place was packed assholes-to-elbows listening to Sobersick on Halloween night, while herds of punks loitered outside under a looming crowd of cigarette smoke.

“I think the most notable feature of the shows that happened here in the summer was that they were fucking HOT. There’s no AC in here. I’m sure loads of people got each other sick, just breathing in the air with no ventilation whatsoever besides keeping the doors open. I got these air movers- I call them air snails, and some fans and stuff, but it was mostly just pushing around the cloud of humidity that was brewing in this place at all times. I swear, it felt like a microclimate at some of these shows.”

The heat, sweat and stench couldn’t keep these people away. Cade had bands booked every weekend, and these shows were so popular that it attracted the attention of Duck Club’s Eric Gilbert, the venerated god of show booking in Boise.

“I think the one show that [Gilbert] attended with the intention of booking shows here, I think he was a little turned off by the fact that it was like 100 degrees that day an he was just getting covered in sweat and ended up leaving 2 bands out of 4.

“I always thought that if there was any reason we were going to get shut down, it would be because of the Fire Marshal saying that we weren’t allowed to have that many people in here with only one exit and no windows.”

Running the venue meant that Cade didn’t always get to participate in the party. Besides the nonstop booking, Cade was also running sound and providing security for each show.

“It feels like being a prom chaperone. In my head I always had this image of me and my circle of friends being the cool kids. Everyone’s coming up to us like hey, have some free beer and some free drugs! A bus of supermodels rolls up and they’re like, ‘oh, you’re the owner of the Corral?’’ and they all come swarm me. Instead it was like a bunch of 18-year-old kids coming here and meeting a girl for the first or second time. ‘Ooh, I’m gonna invite her to the punk show, I hope she likes me!’ and they’re all being cutesy and touching each other. I’m over here, one of the only people old enough to drink going, ‘yeah I remember when I was young.’”

Not to forget sticking around after every show for the “post-show ritual.”

“I would call it ‘Easter egg hunting.’ I would go around with a big bag and pick up everyone’s cigarette butts and beer cans for like an hour, just making laps around the parking lot. Then I’d come in here and vacuum and hang all the stuff back up, and it would be this whole thing that would take until 4 or 5 in the morning. I enjoyed doing it, because I was so stoked that the shows were happening and I Was so elated to have been the one to make it happen for people.”

An Abrupt End

“I was booked through, like May [2022]. Realistically, there was a show booked here every weekend. Most of them for touring bands. It was becoming a huge part of my life; networking and and meeting bands- not even just that, but meeting people in the promotional industry. Getting my name out there as far as helping out with other shows and making these connections with touring bands that I’ve never heard of who were throwing my name around, and throwing the name of this place around to their friends in other states. I felt like it was opening doors for me to make some kind of of career out of it. It was keeping me busy all the time, and it just abruptly ended.”

In February 2022, Texas Ketamine rocked the Corral for their record release. Metalheads were stuffed into the building like sardines, jumping off of stuff and crowd surfing, moshing so hard that the sound panels were falling off the walls. Cade was inside working the soundboard while someone was outside spray-painting the walls of the building and the neighbors’ cars. The vandalism was caught on camera, and the proper management gave Cade his notice to vacate.

“I spent all weekend trying to use paint thinner to clean off his graffiti. Behind the dumpster, there’s a hole in the fence that we called out secret bathroom (or the ‘dog door’ when the Ruff Pups were around). I told somebody at some point, because there was always a huge line for the bathroom at all our shows, that they could just go behind the dumpster, and I guess the graffiti dude wrote ‘Piss’ with an arrow behind the dumpster. And this was in February, so I guess there was a whole bunch of people taking a piss out there and it leaked into the parking lot and froze. So there was just this skating rink of piss… it’s supposed to be the secret bathroom, you’re not supposed to write a sign that says, ‘this is the bathroom!’

“It was my friend’s birthday that weekend. I could have been out partying and having a good time, but instead I was here that whole weekend just putting shit back together and trying as hard as I could to cover up the graffiti. Which they ended up being mad at me for- covering it up. Because they thought that made me look suspect. It was all in vain anyways, because I was only aware of the stuff on the walls. I didn’t realize that he had also tagged the other tenants’ cars so I was fucked anyways.”

Luckily, Cade managed to sweet-talk the management into letting him keep his lease. He can’t use it for live music anymore, but he still has it as a practice space and a crash-pad.

“It was a bummer. Kind of an eye-opening experience, too, because I realized in a lot of ways, I was getting too obsessed with it. I was getting addicted to how popular it was making me feel, and at a couple of shows my friends would say I was acting tyrannical, because I was letting it get to my head that there were so many people here and it was such a big party. It was humbling, for sure. The thought of it being absolutely taken away from me and having no place to come rehearse or record was so upsetting to me. I’m happy that they let me keep it, and my life suddenly got a lot more quiet. I realize that there are so many things to focus on instead of booking punk rock shows all the time. I have more free time to record and do shit with my own band.”

Future Plans

“We initially signed a three-year lease, and that is up in August. Part of the deal is that they’re not going to let me renew it. Unless I try sweet-talking them really hard again, never say never, but I have a strong feeling that it’s gonna be really gone in August. I’ve had a lot of people ask me if I’m gonna try and get one somewhere else. My answer to that is- I couldn’t do it the way I did it the first time. I had the capital back then and I don’t anymore. I had people willing to help set it up, i.e. Ruff Pups. I don’t exactly have them anymore because the singer moved. If it was gonna happen, it would have to be the result of a community effort, like probably the people who enjoyed player here would have to help me financially. I have the soundboards, I have the method of hanging them, I have all the stuff ready to go but it would have to be a matter of scrounging up another $3000+ and finding a good amount of bands who wanted to practice and contribute to rent every month.

“Now that we don’t have shows, it feels more and more like it’s just my place. Not that we don’t have people practicing here anymore, but they do it during the day and I’m here all night. I don’t have anybody willing to help put it together, or if they do, I don’t think they understand the level of commitment that ti actually takes.

“That, plus the amount of times I’ve lived here, and times I’ve spent just sitting outside by myself and watching the moon, this place feels really special to me. The idea of going and getting a different place would be good for the scene, and would be fulfilling in that way, but no matter what if this place closes down it’s gonna be like a part of my soul is gonna be left here forever when the door closes. That’s not me saying I don’t want to be part of something similar to this coming around again, but it does feel far fetched. It wouldn’t feel like my baby anymore, it would feel more like an adopted baby that the village was taking care of.

“At least I feel like I can cross this off my bucket list. I had a dream of getting a warehouse and turning it into a venue and helping the scene be more communal, and I made that happen if it was short lived. Now I’m on to the next dream, which is a camping festival. If I can make that an annual thing, then that’s even better. I’m really interested to see how this trial run goes. There’s really no guarantees. A squall might roll through and blow all our cars away and damage all our pedalboards. The police might tell us ‘no fucking way’ on day one.”

(Read our coverage of the Junction Rift Festival on page 13.)

Why DIY?

“Well, that’s the thing. Everybody likes the DIY shows, they’re a lot more intimate, it feels more like a party, you know? I was never very good about shoving the jar in people’s faces and making them pay, because it they have money they’ll do it. So it was just a really relaxed environment. It’s a really special experience, there’s something about going to house shows that is a lot more liberating. You can ask any band how many times they’ve played at the fucking Shredder. It just gets old. Even a Neurolux show or and Olympic show. It feels special, then you play it three or four times and you’re like, ‘is there anywhere else in town? There are literally like, three venues.’ They all have this real professional, systematic ‘you have to be here at 4 to load in, and this is your sound guy, you’ve gotta sound check for an hour, and can you please share gear, blah blah blah.’ At these ones it’s like, fuck it, show up before the doors, throw your stuff wherever you want, I don’t care what your set-up’s like we’re just gonna plug it in and go. It’s a party, it’s go time.

“The other thing is when you’re on a stage at a formal venue, you end up falling into that trap of trying to seem more professional that you maybe are. When you’re on a stage elevated above people, you metaphorically take on that mindset that you’re above these people. You have to go through your checklist of ‘oh, I gotta thank the venue, and thank the other bands, and I wrote this song about blah blah blah,’ at these shows you’re eye to eye with everyone and your friends are heckling you and you can be like, ‘hey, fuck you, Jack!’ Everyone is dancing like animals and slipping on the rugs, coming up and taking the microphone and saying jokes when somebody’s string breaks. It’s like playing with your friends at any other house show or practice space.

“I’ve lived in Boise my whole life. I’ve been going to house shows since I was like 17 or 18, and I’m 26 now. I’ve seen house venues pop up and they only stick around for like a year or two, then they don’t play shows anymore, or some dumb shit happens and they get shut down. My run was even shorter than most of those places, but probably a higher concentration of shows. It’s like a never ending cycle of the music scene shooting itself in the foot. The dumb kids who do dumb shit just regenerate. That’s not me shitting on anybody, I mean I’ll gladly shit on the guy who vandalized the place because that’s just next-level dumb. But you know, being 19 and getting drunk underage and maybe saying some stupid stuff around people… that’s just what goes on. It’s the ones who think it’s fun to steal stuff or vandalize or go around causing shit with the neighbors of these places. I hope this place was loved enough that people learn a lesson. You can’t shit where you eat. You gotta respect the DIY scene if your love music. If you fuck up the venue, you’re just ruining things for your people. There’s really nobody winning from being an idiot and putting a DIY venue in jeopardy.”